


Room Serviced

by greyskygirl



Series: The Hand That Feeds You [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Chubby Subby Seb, Comfort Food, Food Kink, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl
Summary: Things have changed since the press tour ended, and now nobody's having fun, least of all Sebastian. Chris has some ideas about fixing that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If not for the crazy talented [SevereStorms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms), you wouldn't be reading this. I wrote myself into the most ridiculous corner and almost deleted the whole file, but she wrote me back out of it with an ease I admire and can't match. The interactions between Seb and Don get credited to her. (Much love, friend.)

 

“One seventy,” Don says, frowning down at the glowing red numbers on the high-tech digital scale. “Bro. What’s going on here? This is not the problem I was expecting, after last year.” 

Sebastian steps backward off the scale and shrugs, brushing his hand down his relentlessly flat abs. “Just haven’t felt like eating,” he says. “Been so busy.” And he has been busy, that’s true. But he usually eats more when he’s stressed, and more junk when he’s on the road. That hasn’t been the case this summer. 

“Dude, you’re always hungry. You feeling all right? We can take a few days off if you feel like we’re overtraining.”

“Nah, I’m okay, the training’s good, I feel good.” 

“So what, then? You don’t like the meal plan, we can change it up, no problem.” 

“Nah, the food’s okay.”

“Well, obviously not,” Don says testily, waving his hand at the scale. “You know the numbers are supposed to go _up_ when you’re bulking, right? You’re down another five pounds, Sebby, what gives?” 

“I just…” Sebastian shrugs again. “I’ll get there, Don, okay? I will.” 

“Fine,” Don says, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “But if you wanna be back up to 200 by November, you better get cracking, that’s all.” 

“Right,” Sebastian says. “Right. Will do.” 

But that night, when he sits down to eat his nutritionally perfect dinner in its neatly pre-portioned, microwave-ready Tupperware, he ends up pushing sweet potatoes, broccoli and salmon around on his plate for half an hour and then scraping the whole mess into the garbage disposal. 

It’s been a weird summer -- kind of peaceful, even, especially compared to the frenetic pace of the press tour. There’ve been a few weekends at conventions, but apart from those, Sebastian’s spent most of his time in New York, keeping his body in constant motion in an attempt to quiet his mind. He’s soaking up sun in the park after long runs, sweating out the frustrations he won’t admit to in the gym. He jokes about fast food runs and confesses cheeseburger cravings he’s not really feeling, but there have been no McDonald’s visits, no late-night pizza parties while he watches TV.

He did eat one cheeseburger, but he’d been at a party, and appearances are important. He didn’t need to tell the entirety of the Internet that it tasted a little like sawdust, that he’d barely managed to choke the whole thing down. They’d worry -- and maybe they’d even be right to -- but he knows the cause. There was a thing, a _something_ , and it happened. It happened, and then, apparently, it was done. A matchstick flame in a hurricane, it never stood a chance.

He hasn’t really seen Chris since Singapore. Singapore, where the glowing comfort of Chris’s attention felt like his whole world had narrowed to those moments, that man.

As he’d promised, Chris’d had him again in Singapore, later. Had him so thoroughly, with Chris’s singular meatball-with-a-heart-of-gold appeal, that he felt his life actually changing. He wasn’t the same, and he didn’t want to be. What he wanted was more -- more time, more Chris, more everything.

Especially food. And god, it had been wonderful. 

They’d gone on to London, and the signs had been favorable: Chris was still watching, still leaning over to murmur praise in his ear the more he ate, still ordering extra desserts or pushing untouched meals across the table for him, still brushing a hand lightly across Sebastian’s belly when they gave each other the obligatory back-slapping bro-hug at press events. 

Still whispering “good boy” or “nice work, Chubby Dumpling” into his ear whenever all eyes were off them. 

But then, things had changed; suddenly their timing felt all wrong: events ran late, other people were always present, they never had any time alone, the larger cast group made discretion impossible, and so on. It wasn’t to be.

So they’re back to their lives: the movie’s out, Chris is seeing someone, and now it’s time for Philly, the only con they’re both doing. Mackie’s there, too, and Sebastian clings to that buffer like it’s a lifeboat; appropriate, since he feels a little like a drowning man in Chris’s presence now.

And food no longer seems to bring him any joy whatsoever.

\---

Chris has always inspired his cast mates to give their best, and the acting Sebastian‘s doing here, during the panel and the photo ops and now at the after party? It’s fucking Oscar-worthy. He’s working overtime to appear unaffected, and he’s doing a damn fine job of it, until Chris drops into the chair next to him that Hayley’s just vacated. He’s been pushing his burger around the plate while he pushes himself into every conversation that Chris isn’t part of, but now Chris is a solid presence on his left, leaning in with his usual warm smile. 

“I always forget what a long fuckin’ day this is,” Chris says, the truth of his statement showing in the tired lines of his face.

Sebastian shrugs, reluctantly lifting his burger again to forestall conversation. He chews mechanically, washing the bite down with a pull of his amber lager, but when he finishes, Chris’s earnest eyes are on him, patient and expectant. He’s got to do this, then.

“I’m more used to it than you are,” Sebastian points out, setting his burger aside again. “At least it’s just a weekend -- not weeks on end like the press tour.” The press tour he wasn’t going to mention, and now it’s there between them, an elephant too big for this room.

Sebastian’s face slips into a tiny grimace before he catches it, and Chris sees it, expectant gaze sharpening into something more intent.

“Seb,” he says, and Sebastian flinches from the gentleness in his tone. “Should we? I mean, we should talk. About it.”

“What’s to say?” Sebastian picks up his beer again and drains it, eyeing Hayley’s abandoned bottle for the potential courage hiding in its depths. He doesn’t want this conversation, doesn’t want to hear Chris say the words that have been ringing through his head for weeks now. _Mistake. Shouldn’t have. Can’t happen again. Press tour thing._ Any of those, all of them: intolerable.

“A lot,” Chris says, heat in his voice. “But-- not here, maybe? We can go up to mine.”

He’s already pushing his chair back, and now it’s his body language that’s expectant. Everything about his posture suggests a foregone conclusion: he’ll lead, Sebastian will follow. Chris’s body is starting to unfold from his seat, and Sebastian inches his own chair closer to the table, not meeting Chris’s eyes.

“I’m not done yet.” Not with his burger, and not with Chris, but the latter isn’t a choice still open to him. He shoves an overlarge bite into his mouth and slides Hayley’s beer over to his plate. He does not look at Chris.

He hears Chris say his name. His ears ring with that single syllable, his fingers tremble where they’ve wrapped around the bottle. He anchors himself in his seat, digging his thighs into the edge of the chair, and when Mackie wedges himself between them, clapping a hand to both his shoulder and to Chris’s, his relief is a palpable thing.

He does look up at Mackie, matching the grin that meets him as Mackie tries to coax them both out of their chairs.

“After the party, it’s the after party! Come on, what’s next? We’re not doing this again until Atlanta, so let’s make it _count_. Brotherly love, man. Let’s show this city a good time.”

Chris is still looking at him. Sebastian takes a drink, buying himself another few seconds, frantically cycling through his options. If he goes, Chris goes, and Chris will find a way to talk to him. If he stays: same.

“It sounds great,” he says slowly, forcing a wider smile, only now letting himself glance over at Chris.

Chris nods so quickly and vigorously it would be comical under other circumstances, reaching out to fist bump Mackie.

“Yeah, yes, let’s do it.”

Mackie rubs his hands together. “All right! Where to? Not the same place as last year, I can’t show my face there. You know, after the thing.”

Sebastian stands, and Chris hurries to do the same. “Yeah, man, it sounds great. But I’ve got a migraine coming on or something.” He puts a hand to his head, rubs his temple with long fingers, pastes an apologetic expression onto his face. “You guys go. Represent.”

And with a hurried “later” to the room at large and no pause for propriety, he bolts.

It’s not even much of a lie. Up in his room, he stares into the mirror at his own pale face and washes down two aspirin. It’s early -- he keeps later hours than this in New York, even when he’s staying in, but there’s nothing keeping him up now besides his own thoughts, and they’re unwelcome company. Sebastian climbs into bed, under sheets that are probably nicer than his own, but there’s no comfort in even the luxurious thread count. He tosses and turns until he falls asleep, and it seems like only moments later when he wakes to a commotion in the hallway.

Someone’s knocking on his door. He cracks an eye open, and the clock’s red glare says 2:07. He has every intention of turning back over, pulling a pillow over his head and ignoring what’s certainly a random drunk wandering the hallways.

Until the drunk calls his name. The sleepiness is gone in an instant, and adrenaline floods his whole body. Chris is here, for him. And Chris is drunk, making way too much noise in a formerly-quiet hotel hallway.

There’s nothing for it; he has to let Chris in. He shoves back the covers and hurries across the room, wearing only threadbare cotton sleep pants. His hand hesitates briefly on the cool doorknob as he slides back the lock. He inhales deeply, readying himself, and pulls the door open.

Chris is glassy-eyed and unsmiling, slumped against the wall beside Sebastian’s door, but he brightens as the door swings open, launching himself forward to pull Sebastian into a breath-stealing hug.

“Sebby!” he says, his voice a blur where his face is mashed into Sebastian’s bare shoulder. Sebastian stumbles backward, and the terrible, awful, glorious weight that is Chris’s body pressed against his follows as he steps back into the room, managing to swing the door shut behind them. Chris’s hands slide from his shoulders to his hips, and he mutters something that sounds like “too skinny” into Sebastian’s shoulder. 

Chris’s face is still buried in his neck, breathing against him, just resting, like he plans to stay here, letting Sebastian hold him up. With Chris this close, Sebastian can barely hold himself up. He steps back, carefully unwinding Chris’s hands from around him, shoving those broad shoulders gently until Chris is standing on his own.

Chris is smiling, still, but it’s a little wobbly. He opens his mouth, and Sebastian knows he can’t hear whatever Chris, in all his earnest drunken affection, wants to say, so he rushes to speak first.

“So Chris and Anthony’s excellent adventure looks like it was a success. Any new Philly landmarks on the blacklist?”

Chris shakes his head, swaying a little where he stands. “Stayed here. In the bar. Free drinks.”

“The power of Captain America,” Sebastian jokes, and Chris frowns, shaking his head again.

“Just Chris,” he insists, taking a step forward so that he and Sebastian are sharing space again, close enough for his warm, beery breath to blow on Sebastian’s face. “Seb, we gotta talk. You gotta let me talk.”

And maybe he does, maybe Chris will eventually make him hear this, but he has enough defenses left for tonight.

“Yeah, of course,” Sebastian says. “But you should sit down -- you’re not looking so good.”

He can’t deliver that line so that it sounds like anything but a lie. No level of inebriation could dim Chris’s appeal; he’s actually even harder to resist, as luck would have it, when he’s all loose-limbed and grabby-handed, smiling in a way that makes Sebastian want things. 

Chris glances toward the armchair and starts to shuffle that way, and Sebastian sighs and points in the opposite direction.

“Bed.”

Chris’s raised eyebrows are all surprised acceptance, and under any other circumstances, Sebastian would be returning his pleased grin. Chris flops heavily onto the edge of the bed, and it’s clear from his posture that even sitting is a challenge.

Sebastian looks him over. The button-down is already hanging open, so that’s no obstacle apart from what the blues in the plaid are doing for Chris’s eyes, and the jeans are firmly enemy territory, a line he’s not crossing. That leaves the tan high-tops.

“Friendship,” he mutters to himself, echoing Chris’s own comment from weeks ago, and kneels to start working on the laces.

Chris’s hand lands in his hair, clumsily stroking, and Sebastian shivers as he busies himself with his task. He's imagined this scenario so differently: Chris wasn't drunk, Chris wanted him, Chris maybe even asked him to kneel. But this is no script he can revise; no blocking he knows cold. As he tugs the first shoe off, Chris speaks.

“I can do that.”

It's an out, and Sebastian needs one desperately, so he stills his hands above Chris’s remaining sneaker and attempts to scoot backward, forgetting about the hand Chris still has tangled in his hair.

Chris’s balance is precarious enough that when Sebastian moves, Chris moves with him. Easily avoidable, if he was willing to let go. But that hand is still cradling Sebastian’s hand as Chris lists forward, and it's clear what's going to happen, so Sebastian lunges out of his crouch and throws his weight against Chris, knocking him flat, safely on the bed.

He’s neglecting his own safety now; this proximity is the most dangerous stunt he's ever attempted. With his body pressed to Chris’s, the memories from Singapore come flooding out of that deep-down place where he's tried so hard to keep them. That's a lie, too -- he remembers everything, always, how Chris looked and felt and tasted. And the cruelty of this moment is that it's seemingly within his reach again, but Chris didn't ask for this. Chris doesn't want this.

He clears his throat and puts his palms on either side of Chris’s shoulders, intending to lever himself backward, off the bed. He still won't be safe, but maybe he can at least take a breath. As he shoves himself away from Chris and lands unsteadily, he winces -- right, Chris’s fingers were still tangled in his hair.

Chris blinks muzzily and tries to sit up. “Seb, what… What're you doin’?”

“Water. And aspirin. You’re not making it through tomorrow -- well, today, actually, you’ve got like six hours until we start again -- otherwise. Trust me, you don’t want to do all those photo ops with a hangover.”

Sebastian moves around the room, grateful for something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve touching Chris. He fills a glass and grabs the aspirin from his travel bag, and when he turns around, Chris has managed to push himself up on his elbows. So much of this is like Singapore happening in reverse -- but Sebastian’s still the one feeling ill, no matter how much Chris’s had to drink.

“Here you go,” he says lightly, and holds out his hands to Chris, pills in one palm, glass cradled in the other. 

Chris’s nails scrape against his palm as he takes the pills, and Sebastian works to control the shiver that touch creates. But when Chris tilts the glass to his lips and drinks, watching his throat move creates an equally powerful sensation. And when the glass is drained, those blue eyes refocus on him.

Sebastian holds a hand out, meaning to take the glass from Chris, but Chris pushes himself up further and takes Sebastian’s hand with his free one, holding tight.

“You’re distracting me,” he says, tone more puzzled than accusatory.

“No,” Sebastian answers with a sigh, giving in to the urge to squeeze Chris’s fingers in his before sliding his hand free. “I’m _trying_ to distract you. It’s just not working. Want another drink, maybe?

“Or I can download that audiobook that Jackson did. You heard it?” He barrels on, not waiting for Chris to respond. “I’ll sum it up. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Seb.” And now Chris sounds angry, heat creeping into his tone, shining through that single syllable. “Fuckin’ let me talk to you.”

“You’re drunk,” Sebastian points out, shrugging. “You’re not going to remember this in the morning. Just leave it. All right?” He’s on the verge of giving in -- ripping off the Band-Aid and hearing whatever it is Chris has to say.

_Mistake. Never again. Shouldn’t have. Can’t._

But if Chris doesn’t remember, then he’ll have to go through this all over again when the next crisis of conscience hits. Once is going to be more than enough, and so it’s not going to be tonight.

“Not tonight,” Sebastian says aloud, tensing as Chris seems to gather himself to argue. “Just get some sleep, okay?”

Chris will sleep, and Chris will forget, and Chris will wake up and go on with his day and his life as if everything’s normal, because for him, it is.

Sebastian’s not going to manage any of those.

“Sleep,” Sebastian says again, and Chris slides obligingly backward until his head can flop onto the pillow. He’s still wearing one shoe, a fact Sebastian’s not going to point out, because there’s been enough touching, and he’s so nearly clear of this minefield.

Chris will sleep.

But not before he pats the space beside him with clumsy insistence, his eyes already drooping. “Seb. C’mon. You gotta sleep, too.”

There’s a perfectly uncomfortable-looking chair that Sebastian was planning to curl up in, but fine. Chris is sprawled on top of the covers, so he has a sheet, a comforter and his own self control for protection. He’s not quite sure which of those is the thinner layer.

“Yeah, okay.”

And if it’s not okay, at least that’s his own poorly-kept secret. He tugs the sheet back and slides beneath it, turning his back to Chris. Sebastian can feel the mattress dip beneath him as Chris rolls to his side, sleepily murmuring something that might be his name and probably isn’t. They’re so close now, in the quiet dark of the room, with Chris facing Sebastian’s back. If he shifts an inch or two in his sleep, they’ll touch.

He won’t sleep.

But then his alarm’s singing him into wakefulness, and as he reaches for the nightstand to dismiss it, he can’t immediately raise his arm. He feels hot and heavy and momentarily confused, and then he realizes what’s pinning him to the bed: Chris Evans, human octopus and stealth cuddler, has wrapped him up in his sleep, curling one of those ridiculous arms around Sebastian’s stomach and pulling him flush against him.

He’s trapped: his alarm gets progressively louder the longer it plays, so it’s going to be Wham! or his desperate lunge out of Chris’s grip that wakes Chris to the fact that he’s mistaken Seb -- either for a pillow or a preferred companion. Chris doesn’t know where he is or who he’s with, and Sebastian knows he can’t bear to see the guilty realization on Chris’s face when he does.

He tries for stealth, wriggling slowly forward, trying to scoot out from under the heavy arm holding him in place. He’s nearly there, inches from being able to stretch far enough to grab his phone, but Chris stirs and rolls further into him. Sebastian freezes, hoping his stillness will settle Chris, but it’s too late.

Chris cracks one eye open, looking endearingly confused and not at all awake. “... the fuck?”

Sebastian breathes in, ready to explain, and then Chris is laughing, hard enough to shake the bed and send vibrations through Sebastian’s whole body.

“My head, ow, fuck. Seriously, Seb? Wake me up before you go-go? This is what gets you out of bed in the morning?”

And that’s an easy cue to follow, so Sebastian takes the opening, pushing himself out from under Chris’s arm and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, finally silencing his alarm.

“That and coffee,” he says, standing and heading over to the Keurig on the desk. Chris sits up and groans, and Sebastian forces a laugh. “Just say no to hotel bars, man. Mackie’s going to be fresh as a daisy this morning, and you’re going to hate him.”

“I already hate him,” Chris mutters, shakily standing up. Sebastian watches as he glances down. “Seb. Uh. Why’m I only wearing one shoe?”

That question is a slippery slope into territory best avoided, and so Sebastian’s glad when Chris’s phone rings.

He’s less glad when Chris glances over his shoulder and says a quiet “hey” in a voice Sebastian’s never heard before.

Sebastian abandons his coffee and escapes into the bathroom, leaving Chris’s conversation on the other side of a door, wishing it was the other side of a continent. He stares at his reflection critically: his wide blue-grey eyes are showing a little too much of the wound that single soft syllable inflicted. The warmth -- that he’s heard from Chris, sure -- but the intimacy was something else. It’s not for him, just like Chris isn’t.

He splashes some water on his face and orders himself to pull it together. He’s got to do better than this. Hell, he’s got to _be_ better than this. Chris is his friend. His co-worker. The professional colleague he has unprofessional thoughts about.

He’s got to do better than this.

He pastes a smile onto his face and opens the door, just in time to catch Chris ending his call.

“Yeah, no, I will. I _will._ I'll call you later.”

The call disconnects, and Chris pushes the phone into his pocket, turning his attention back to Sebastian, a spotlight brighter than any stage lights he's worked under.

“Sorry, I--”

“Answered your phone?” Sebastian lifts an eyebrow. “How dare you.”

Chris flushes, and Sebastian waves off the explanation he can see forming, pointing at the clock on the nightstand.

“You've got 40 minutes. Shower, coffee. Those’re your priorities.”

“You--” Chris starts, then pulls his phone out to check the time and swears. “Yeah. Okay. But later. Later, Seb. I didn't forget.”

Sebastian bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, but Chris is heading out the door, shoe dangling from his hand. He manages to get himself ready, and he manages to get through another day of the con, buoyed by the fans’ enthusiasm, and then he manages to duck out while Chris is chatting with Hayley. There's no after party, no commitment he has to shake, and so he just goes, because he can't bear to stay.

He's boarding the train home when his phone buzzes, and he knows before he looks at it. He swipes without looking, index finger passing quickly over Chris’s name so he can see the message.

_It’s later. You left._

It deserves a response, but what can Sebastian say to that? It is. He did. Chris’s short accusation -- and if it feels like he’s being accused, it’s because he’s guilty -- is nothing but the truth. He doesn’t have a good answer, and he owes Chris more than excuses. But he swipes again, and the message is gone.

Like it never happened.

\--

If it was that easy to erase a memory -- assuming he wanted to in the first place, which is approximately as far from the truth as that larva toast from being edible -- Chris wouldn’t be staring at his phone, waiting for a reply he refuses to admit might not come.

He remembers everything about Singapore, Sebastian and one night that was supposed to be more. Sebastian is more to him than that, always has been, even if the physical connection hasn’t continued. The weekend’s been good for one thing, at least: there is no doubt in his mind that Sebastian doesn’t want to talk about what happened, but more than that, he’s actively avoiding the conversation.

Sebastian doesn’t want to hear what he wants to say. Sebastian, who’s laughed with him and listened to him for years, is now bolting out of rooms and hiding behind doors and ignoring his texts.

Texts, because he’s sent two more in the hour since he realized Sebastian was gone.

_Are you okay?_

_Let me know when you make it home, Seb. We’ll talk later._

He goes home to Boston. Hours later, as he’s ready to crawl into his own bed instead of Sebastian’s, his phone finally displays the name he’s been waiting to see.

_I’m home. See you in November._

“Fuck that,” he says out loud, glaring at his phone. Whatever Sebastian’s thinking, he’s wrong if he assumes Chris is letting this go, letting _him_ go that easily. They’re friends, and they aren’t just friends, and Chris doesn’t give up on the people in his life. And Sebastian’s cemented his place in that group, so no to “see you in November” and to the idea that Sebastian’s going to ignore him until then.

No, now Chris is going to do what he does best: he’s going to care, and he’s going to do it so plainly that Seb might as well have a tattoo on his forehead.

“Chris Evans fuckin’ cares about me.”

He starts off slowly; it’s okay if Sebastian needs time, and it’s okay for him to think he can hide. So he calls a few times, which means he leaves messages a few times. He talks about the Boston heat, about his dog and about his mom’s cooking.

Which gets him thinking. His mom, she feeds him to show him that she cares. She makes all his favorites, all the things he grew up eating as comfort food and sick food and for family occasions.

And this thing with Seb, their connection -- sure, it’s not _about_ food, but that was the spark that he’d been unable to douse. It was kind of their start, and it led to him getting to take care of Seb. That’s what he needs to do, and it’s sure as hell what he _wants_ to do.

Then he sees the pictures coming out of Sacramento, and the care and feeding of Sebastian Stan becomes less of a project and more a biological imperative. It’d been a constant refrain on the press tour, how Seb was going to have so little downtime before he started bulking again. So he should be doing that right now, he should be back on that ridiculous five-thousand-calories-a-day plan.

Except he looks smaller than he had on the press tour, smaller even than he had just a couple of weeks ago in Philly. Smaller means he’s not on the plan; smaller means something is wrong. And if something’s wrong, maybe Chris can make it right.

Mission accepted.

He can’t go to New York himself, but he can take the summer camp route of long-distance love ( _love?_ he thinks wildly): care packages. It can’t be random, either: if he wants to shake Seb out of this weird headspace, this impossible place where he seems to doubt everything between them, he’s got to make some kind of impression.

So maybe he needs to go back to the start, to Singapore, except in a way that isn’t going to leave Seb half-sick and breathless without Chris there to take care of him.

He finds what he needs on a Wednesday morning after an hour of frustrated online browsing -- frustrated, because nothing is perfect and everything has to be -- grinning as he picks up the phone to place his order and give a few special instructions. Seb has finally started answering his texts with a bit more regularity, and Chris has managed to coax an admission that he’s staying in tonight, a midweek breather from what seems to be an unusually busy social schedule.

He manages to restrict his reply to a single, casual word.

_Enjoy!_

He really thinks Sebastian will.

\---

Sebastian’s exhausted. Even his bones are tired, it seems, and when he looks in the mirror, he wonders if the dark circles he sees there in the morning are etched into his skin permanently. He’s been going nonstop -- running, lifting and whatever else he can find to occupy his body and, temporarily, his mind. And he’s always been social, but he’s upped that to a near-frenetic pace since Philly. Philly, where normalcy was a disguise he was trying to wear and not a thing he was feeling. It’s a costume that he hasn’t really bothered to change out of.

It’s not a great act, and it’s certainly not fooling his friends, but no one’s pushing. No one asks when he glances at his phone and flinches, and no one gives him a hard time when he begs out of tonight’s gathering.

So now he’s on his couch in sweats and a worn tee, slumped against the cushions and prepared not to move for hours, but then the door buzzes.

He’s definitely not expecting anyone, and any guest not on his list would have been announced. He sighs, shoving himself out of the comfy nest he’s created and padding to the door in bare feet. The face he sees when he opens the door is familiar: Reggie, the building’s doorman, with his usual smile and an enormous sack he’s using both hands to hold.

“Uh,” Sebastian says, eyeing the bag with confusion, shrugging. “Reg, I didn’t-- I don’t know what this is.”

Reggie’s smile only widens, and as he pushes the bag forward, Sebastian’s instincts force him to accept it.

“I’m told there’s a card, Mr. Stan.”

And with his delivery safely -- if strangely -- made, Reggie turns back toward the elevator, and Sebastian closes the door, staring at the sack in his hands. If he hadn’t been interested before, the smells coming from the bag pique both appetite and curiosity.

Someone’s sent him food.

He takes the sack to the table and unloads a dozen large containers in growing wonder. His fingers are itching to flip open lids -- the smells filling the room are making his mouth water in a way nothing has in weeks -- but then they land on paper.

Reggie was right; there’s a card. He lifts it and freezes, because the three-lettered diminutive form of his name is on the envelope in handwriting that makes his fingertips tremble to run over it. He knows those pen strokes, and his mind’s eye has a clear picture of the writer dashing off those letters with eager impatience. If this delivery was weird already, knowing who’s behind it does nothing but reinforce the strangeness.

Chris sent him food.

It almost doesn’t compute, and the _whatwhyhow_ has him reeling a little, but then he thinks of the oddly probing texts Chris’s been sending, offering details about his own schedule and asking about Sebastian’s with nothing that approaches subtlety.

He slides the card out of the envelope so quickly and carelessly that he slices the pad of his finger, hissing as he lifts it to his lips. But it’s easily forgotten as his other hand flips open the card to reveal the words written there. Chris’s words. To him.

_Thought this might help you enjoy your evening in -- let me know how you like it._

Chris’s name’s scrawled beneath, and under that, a hurried postscript.

_Is it November yet?_

Sebastian sinks into the nearest chair, the card still clutched in his hand. He wasn’t surprised when Chris continued to reach out after Philly; that cheerful stubbornness is something he admires, even. Personally and professionally, Chris has high standards -- just being around him is like gravity: you rise because you have to, drawn up because you can’t do otherwise. He still wants to sulk, to nurse the unintentional injury Chris inflicted by choosing him and then seemingly thinking better of that choice.

But Chris is still reaching, and the note crumpled between Sebastian’s fingers is proof of his purpose. Maybe even of his eagerness, given the reference to November that seems to fly in the face of that first terse reply Sebastian’d sent. If this is Chris reaching, this is Sebastian being sorely tempted to reach back.

First, though, he needs to reach out and see just what Chris thought would make his evening better (as if the note itself hadn’t done that already). He opens the closest container, and the delicious smell in the room intensifies. He’s flushing hot as he takes in what’s before him.

He shouldn’t be surprised that it’s dumplings -- or that they’re covered in what seems to be plum sauce. He should know, since plums have been offered to him in every possible form since the movie came out. He opens the next container, eager now, and moans happily when he discovers skewers laden with beef and shrimp and asparagus and carrots.

Lots of skewers, he finds as he flips open several more containers, and lots of dumplings. If he was having a dinner party instead of what’s been feeling like a pity party, he’d be well equipped to feed his guests. Eight or nine of them, he guesses.

His eyes widen further when he opens the final containers: tarts, an even dozen (per container, so three dozen, Jesus, Chris), in four varieties. He identifies berry by sight, caramel and lemon by smell … and the last is a mystery for now, but one he’ll happily solve.

He hurries to the kitchen, energized and eager, to grab silverware and a plate. Paper and plastic were included in the delivery, but he feels the need to make this more of an occasion, even if he’s wearing sweatpants. It’s not every day Chris Evans sends him massive amounts of food that trigger sense memory so strongly it threatens to steal his breath, after all.

Sebastian looks at his table, at the dumplings and tarts and skewers clamoring to be his first bite, and all he can think of is Chris, choosing this for him. The plate clatters to the table with a little more force than he intends, and his fingers curl around the fork he probably doesn’t need.

It’s what he’s been wanting: to know that Chris is thinking of him, at least in some small way, even if it’s not the way he thinks of Chris. And the evidence is here, filling the table in front of him. He feels suddenly flushed with warmth, and he releases the fork to reach for his phone, snapping a picture of the ridiculous spread in front of him.

The words he wants won’t come, so he settles for a simple caption.

_Stan: Party of one_

He hasn’t even set the phone down before it’s buzzing a response, and Sebastian’s grinning before he even sees what Chris has said, because now? Now he’s imagining Chris, watching the clock and then his phone, waiting for acknowledgment of his gift. Waiting for him.

_You sure about that? Looks like a Chubby Dumpling party to me._

Oh. With that, he could almost be back in Singapore, with Chris beside him, and that makes everything so much clearer. He smiles, and he sits, and he begins to eat.

A dumpling first -- an obvious choice, and he groans in pleasure at the taste. It’s perfectly crispy as it crunches in his mouth, and the sauce is ever so slightly sweet. He wants to savor it, but he hasn’t been eating all that much lately, and what he’s had? It didn’t taste like this. The first dozen are gone all too quickly, and his hand rubs his stomach reflexively. There’s no softness there now, but Sebastian eyes the feast in front of him with new purpose, picking up his phone once more for a progress photo: his first empty container.

_Dumplings? What dumplings?_

This response is just as immediate as the last, and this time, Chris sends a picture of his own: His goofily grinning, bearded face and a giant thumbs-up.

It’s all the encouragement Sebastian needs. He samples the skewers next, practically inhaling the lemongrass shrimp and Thai beef. He’s so hungry, and it’s so good, and the next thing he knows, there are 12 skewers looking lonely in a container, a few specks of sauce the only indication they weren’t always empty.

The food is starting to settle in his stomach, and he palms his belly again, glad for his comfortable sweats.

Another photo of another empty container.

 _Oof_ is all the caption this one gets.

 _No way you’re done yet_ is the rapid-fire response.

And Chris is right. Sebastian reaches for another dumpling and captures a picture of it pinched between his fingers.

_You have no idea how good these are._

There’s no pause before the response comes. _Tell me._

Sebastian pops the dumpling into his mouth and eyes the crumbs on his fingers. He debates for a moment -- how far is too far, and exactly who’s measuring his distance from that imaginary line? -- and shrugs, letting instinct rule. Chris asked, after all.

_Finger licking good._

And then he’s setting his phone down, focusing on dessert. His grin’s as much for the sweetness of the first tart on his tongue as it is for the three buzzes his phone emits where it’s screen-down on the table, just at the edge of his fingertips.

He discovers quickly that pear was the mystery tart, and it vaults into second place after the triple berry. Caramel and lemon go down just as easily, though, and he’s worked his way through a dozen before he stops to assess the impact of all the calories he’s just devoured. His stomach aches a little -- this is more food than he’s eaten in the past three days, probably -- but it feels good to be full. 

It also feels good to be talking to Chris, sharing this with him, even if it’s just through a screen. Which reminds him-- Sebastian uses his left hand, the crumb-free one, to flip his phone over and taps the screen to see what he’s missed. Three texts, all with the same timestamp.

_Jesus. So did you?_

_Lick your fingers?_

_I won’t believe it until I see it._

As a challenge, it’s almost too easy. The grin curves into a smirk with a shade of wickedness to it, and Sebastian opens the camera app and flips it around for a selfie. He chooses the angle carefully, framing a close-up of his lips and chin, slides his right index finger between parted pink lips and lets his tongue wrap around the digit to suck it clean. It’s hardly the most erotic photo he’s ever taken, but his breathing picks up a little as he sends it to Chris.

No need for a caption.

The telltale dots appear and disappear by Chris’s name four times in the next minute. Sebastian didn’t need a caption, and Chris can’t form a response.

\---

“This is more like it,” Don says on Friday during Sebastian’s pre-workout weigh-in. “One seventy-five. This is what we want, man. Keep up the good work. If we can get you up to one-eight-five by the end of the month, we’ll be back on track.”

“Jesus,” Sebastian says, mostly just to be saying something. Ten pounds in one month? Probably isn’t going to be a problem. He almost feels sorry for Don.

But only almost.

\---

The rest of the week’s a little lighter: the morning run not as punishing, the gym set not as brutal. He’s still working hard, sure, but the desperation to move, move, move isn’t there, because the thoughts that come flooding into the still moments aren’t as dark.

It’s Sunday afternoon when the buzzer sounds again, and Seb springs off the couch eagerly. He’s not expecting anything today, either, but he’s hoping. Chris’s attempt at a cryptic text earlier had prompted him to casually cancel his maybe-plans. Just in case.

And when Reggie’s smiling face greets him for the second time in a week, Sebastian feels something like joy flood his veins. 

“Another delivery, Mr. Stan.”

“Looks like it,” Sebastian murmurs, accepting a bag that’s larger and heavier than the other one. He hefts it gingerly and hears the clink of bottles. Reggie’s smiling at his open puzzlement, and it’s an easy thing to smile back.

He hauls his latest gift to the table and peers inside the bag, pulling out a six-pack of beer that he laughs: its label proclaims it’s come to him from the Brooklyn Brewery. 

Sebastian removes the rest of the bag’s contents: another card, and three sizable Styrofoam containers that he places carefully on the table before returning his attention to the note.

Chris’s writing again -- _You probably don’t even know what’s good in your own city, so I figured I’d help you out. Hope you’re hungry._

And surely it’s simply pure hunger that floods Sebastian’s mouth with saliva then, even before he’s flipped the lid on the first container to find an enormous burger competing for space with a huge portion of onion rings. His stomach growls, and he’s tempted to dig in immediately, but the curiosity momentarily wins out over the food lust. 

A dozen wings are crowded into the next container with two containers of sauce. They smell spicy and delicious -- some exotic barbecue, maybe, and he opens the sauces to sniff at them. Aioli’s easy, and he’s in his own apartment, so to hell with propriety -- he dips a finger into the other and identifies dill ranch. Eating the spread’s not going to be a problem, but deciding where to start might be.

There’s still one container left. He guesses dessert; he guesses wrong. It’s another burger, maybe bigger than the first, and Sebastian peels the bun back to reveal pico de gallo and spicy mayo … so maybe this is chorizo. 

Chris’s chosen well for him yet again.

He’s halfway through the first burger before he thinks to take a picture, and when he considers where he left off in this strange, thrilling exchange, it seems like it’s time to up the ante.

He palms his stomach, slides his fingers over still-flat abs until he hits the waistband of his jeans. Angling the phone just so, he snaps a picture of his left hand working the button open.

_I’m ready._

He polishes off the burger in short order, and the onion rings follow. His phone’s buzzed once, but he’s focused. Chris sent him food so he could eat it, after all, so eat it he will. When he draws in a breath after the last onion ring vanishes into his mouth, his stomach protests a little. And he’s got a lot of food left to eat here.

A quick break seems in order, so he checks his phone and almost chokes on his swig of beer.

Chris’s replied with a picture message of his own -- a shot of his own hand slipped under the elastic of his gray sweats, a hint of his abs peeking out.

_Those jeans aren’t gonna last long. Should’ve gone for sweats._

Onion rings notwithstanding, Sebastian’s jeans are definitely a shade less comfortable than they were before he checked his phone. He finishes the first beer and reaches for another, and the heat in his cheeks has nothing to do with alcohol.

He’s feeling good now, flushed with food and beer and thoughts of Chris, and so he works his way through the wings quickly. A glance at his shirt proves him all mess and no finesse: there’s a large splotch of sauce right over his belly. Well, there’s his next photo subject, then.

_I’m a mess. Your fault._

He thinks Chris’ll understand what he’s saying.

He watches Chris’s dots start and stop, and then finally, the reply comes as Sebastian’s taken the first swig of his third beer, a copper-colored Saison.

_I’ll take responsibility. Take it off._

Sebastian stutters out a shaky laugh and tugs his gray tee over his head, probably stretching out the collar even further. He glances down, noting the way his belly’s slightly distended, and bites his lip, deciding to reply without an image this time. 

_Done. But that’s not gonna help get me through the last burger._

_I picked it for you, Seb. You’re gonna do it._

It was never really in question: what Chris wants from him, Sebastian wants to give. And what Chris wants is so achingly easy to give. Eating. Nearly as simple as breathing, or at least it is now, with Chris’s attention back on him where it’d been elsewhere, the sun peeking out from behind a cloud.

Sebastian drains the third beer in short order and doesn’t bother to stifle his belch. He cracks open the next, a Pilsner -- the beer deserves the same attention the wings and burgers are getting, surely -- figuring he better work his way through the next couple of bottles while he’s still got a burger to help absorb them.

Not that it matters.

So he’s a little messy, a little tipsy, a little full. It feels okay to drain the Pilsner in a few long swallows, and it feels okay to take an enormous bite of the chorizo burger. It feels okay to repeat that process with the IPA and then with the Brown Ale, and then he’s sitting in front of a table laden with empty containers and just-as-empty bottles.

His phone buzzes, and when he reaches for it, stretching across the table, he feels how full he really is. The beer sloshes a little in his stomach, which -- okay, if he thought it was distended before, he needs a new word for this. Swollen, almost comically given the current state of his abs. A little painful, maybe, but in a way he likes; it’s proof that this happened, of what he did, of what Chris asked.

His laugh’s a little giddy when he sees Chris’s text.

_Mission report._

He doesn’t have the words; one last photo will have to do, and so he uses one hand to cradle his belly where it’s pressing against his unbuttoned jeans, noticing that the zipper’s making a break for freedom, and snaps a picture.

_Soldat is really fucking full._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long -- the ongoing pointiness of our subject kind of derailed my muse in a big way, but thanks to I'm Dying Up Here, we are back in action. One more chapter to follow this, in hopefully a much more timely fashion. I needed some chinspiration to write; I have found it.
> 
> I was told it was evil to leave this chapter here. SHRUG THING. I'm kind of evil, then.

It goes on like that for the next few weeks -- deliveries every few days. Lots of food, lots of texts, lots of sidestepping Don’s pointed remarks about how quickly he’s gaining weight. He feels too light to be worried about how heavy he is.

Three days before he’s supposed to fly to Chicago for Wizard World, Chris sends him a Boston cream pie. The next night, it’s a New York style cheesecake. And then two hours before he has to leave for the airport, he gets a Chicago deep dish. Supreme.

Sebastian stares incredulously for a long moment. He reaches for his phone with one hand, grabs a huge slice with the other.

_You’re kidding, right? Two hours, and then I’m getting on a plane. Chubby Dumpling has his limits. And I hear there’s pizza in Chicago._

All the same, he manages to polish off two slices before Chris replies.

_You hate flying, so I figured I’d give you something else to focus on. Eat the pizza._

Sebastian eats the pizza. The entire pizza.

He’s definitely not thinking about the flight itself when his car’s 20 minutes late and he has to actually jog through the airport, one hand on his overfull stomach. He stops for a selfie with a teary-with-joy fan and tries to force a smile that says “I’m in a hurry, but hey!” rather than “I just ate a whole pizza and I regret everything.”

He actually doesn’t regret anything. Not his level of fullness, not this addictive … thing … with Chris, not any of it. Not as he tugs the seatbelt over his protesting belly, not as the plane takes off and not as the thought of Chris lulls him into a drowsy, happy haze that lasts the entire flight.

And when he’s handed a key card in Chicago, it opens a door to a room that’s clearly not his. Sebastian’s got no complaints about his accommodations on any given convention weekend, but this? This is VIP on a level he’s yet to experience, celebrity treatment not meant for his still-rising star. He wondered, briefly, when the hastily scrawled number had a “P” in front of it, but his nap on the plane had done nothing for his lucidity.

For all he knew, he had a room on the Pizza level.

But no, it was indeed the penthouse, and he’s staring at a spacious suite that looks almost as big as his apartment. There’s a full living room -- complete with a gray microsuede sectional he’s going to be sprawled on in about half a minute -- a dining room with, Jesus, _six_ chairs, and a bathroom that looks like it’s straight from an upscale spa.

He’s reaching for the phone to call the front desk when his own phone trills in his pocket. When he slides it out, it’s Chris -- FaceTiming him. It’s a step they haven’t yet taken during these past weeks of feeding and flirting, and Sebastian’s hand shakes a little as he accepts.

And then they’re staring at each other, Sebastian’s grin growing to match Chris’s. Chris looks good, really good, sporting that famous I’m-not-Cap-right-now beard, the one Sebastian can recall scraping against his thighs.

“You made it!” is Chris’s opener, and then his grin turns sly. “Was I right? About the pizza? You didn’t send any pictures, so--”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, I was kind of busy shoving a whole pizza into my mouth. Almost missed my flight.”

He still feels ridiculously full, and he casts a longing glance at the couch, wishing he could get horizontal. Right-- the couch in the room that isn’t his. “Hey, can I call you back? They put me in the wrong room, I need to get that figured out.”

Chris’s grin seems a touch more sly at that. “Seems like a pretty big mistake for a hotel to make. You sure?”

Sebastian taps the button to show Chris the room, panning slowly.

“This place is insane. We don’t get put up like this.”

Chris laughs, and Sebastian flips the camera back to eye him suspiciously.

“No, no, you’re right,” Chris says, his expression shifting into something that feigns an innocence Sebastian would never believe. “The con would not put you up like that.”

His tone is gleeful, even as he’s maintaining a straight face, and these dots require only elementary-level logic to connect.

“You-- _why?_ ” Accepting that Chris has done this, that’s one thing. Understanding his motivations -- that’s more like advanced game theory, and okay, yes, Sebastian has accepted by now that they’re playing some kind of game, what with the deliveries and the texts and the teasing. He’s playing, and he’s into it, but his strategy’s pretty basic: take what Chris gives, maybe build on it a little. But the endgame eludes him.

His confusion has to show, because Chris is looking a little more serious now. “Hey, Seb. I wanted to, okay? Can that be enough of a reason for now?”

His head’s as full of questions as his belly is of pizza, and the combination’s dizzying.

Chris is still talking, asking about his schedule for the evening, and Sebastian tries to focus, even as he’s hoping Chris will have to _tell him_ to focus. Order him, in a voice with edges gone ever so slightly sharp, to pay attention.

“Are you listening?”

It’s the voice.

He’s not. He’s focusing on Chris’s beard as he talks, remembering the rough rasp of it over sensitive skin, how warm and wicked that mouth was. God, the memory’s so vivid he shudders, like Chris is here now, touching him that way again.

“What? Sorry,” he manages, panning down so Chris can see his hand cradling his stomach. “I’m just really full. Um. But there’s a thing tonight, I think, but I said I wasn’t going.”

“You’re going.”

Sebastian gapes; he can’t help it. And at the same time, his whole body flushes with warmth. It’s not a cure-all -- he still really wants some quality time on that couch, out of these too-tight jeans -- but that same weird energy from Singapore is humming through his veins, where Chris gave him a casual order and his brain said _obey_.

Which explains why now he’s moving to his suitcase, awkwardly unzipping it with his free hand and flipping it open to see what he’s got, as far as options that might help disguise the excess of the day (and the past few weeks), the softness that’s replaced his abs.

He can’t really do anything about his cheekbones; there’s no hoodie for that.

“Gonna change?” Chris asks, and Sebastian abandons rummaging through his clothes to nod. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And before he’s really thought about what he’s doing, Sebastian’s spreading out his shirts on the massive king bed, swiveling the camera to display the options for Chris. It’s not like he’s unused to having someone else tell him what to wear, but this isn’t a professional, looking him over with a distant eye.

This is Chris.

“What’s on the far left?”

Sebastian looks and blanches. He’d filled his suitcase in a hurry, which is the only reason the semi-transparent tee he’d worn to that fashion show last month is here; it’d been between two others and got caught in the rapid-packing crossfire. Jesus, anything but that. It shows everything, which seemed fine when his gym routine was more reliable than his food delivery schedule, but now?

He glances down, swivels the camera around and tries on a sheepish expression. “I didn’t mean to pack that.”

“But you did. Try it on, let me see.”

“Fuck.” It’s under his breath, the quietest mutter, but Chris raises an eyebrow, and damn that smirk.

“Come on, Sebby, show me the goods.”

“Are you even serious right now?” He’s protesting, he’s making a face … and all the while, he’s dropping the phone onto the bed and stripping off his shirt, reaching for the one Chris chose. As he tugs it over his head, he reassures himself.

It’ll be fine.

Before he picks up the phone, he looks sideways to the full-length mirror.

It’s not fine.

In July, the fit was comfortable -- loose and easy, an acquaintance, fabric whispering hello to his skin from a comfortable distance, a fan safely behind a barrier. Things are a little more personal now: the drape has become a cling, a determined embrace, the great-aunt who just will not stop touching.

It’s like he can look into the mirror and see everything he’s eaten since the first delivery. He pokes a finger into his side: that’s the burgers and beer, or maybe the cheesecake. And the very beginnings of a belly, pressing tightly against his waistband? The pizza. And the pie.

“Seb!”

He grabs the phone from the bed and stares at Chris, shaking his head. “I can’t. I can’t wear this. It looks --” _Like the shirt I wore when I ate all that dim sum for you. Indecent. Better than it did last time I wore it._

He leaves that blank for Chris to fill in.

“Let me see.”

And he shouldn’t want to, maybe, shouldn’t want to step in front of the mirror and turn the camera to show Chris exactly what his long-distance care packages have done, what a month of food has wrought. But he remembers all those texts, all those pictures .... and all those responses that tell him Chris isn’t going to wince when he sees the softer side of Sebastian Stan.

He swivels the camera again, giving Chris a clear view of the shirt and everything it’s trying to contain as it sticks to his sides like a stubborn second skin.

“I see what you mean.” Chris’s voice is a little lower, a little hoarse, and the way he’s watching Sebastian’s reflection is making it harder to breathe than the whole pizza sitting in his stomach. “Yeah, no. You’ve gotta wear it.”

“But it looks--”

“Good,” Chris says firmly. “It looks good.”

Sebastian sighs in an attempt to hide his shiver, because if he looks good to Chris, that’s almost like he’s _being_ good _for_ Chris, and, well … Jesus. He can’t go out with both a gut full of pizza and a hard-on. There have to be limits.

He snatches a blazer off the bed and holds it up for Chris. “This, too.”

His inflection is carefully neutral, but they both know it’s a question. He’s asking.

“I dunno, it seems like a shame to hide all of that.” Chris drags out the last few words, and Sebastian’s pretty sure Chris can see the resulting full-body flush through his goddamn see-through shirt.

He tugs on the blazer and waits until Chris grins at him to flip the camera back around.

“So I’m going out.”

Chris takes a long pull off his beer before he nods, tipping his bottle in Sebastian’s direction. “Have a couple drinks while you’re out; you’ve gotta keep up. And text me when you’re on your way back.”

Sebastian fires off a sloppy salute in response and laughs as he disconnects, and then he heads off to do as he’s been told.

\--

He overshoots “a couple” drinks by a couple more, so he’s pleasantly buzzed -- and even fuller -- when he climbs into the Uber to head back to the hotel. He hadn’t been hungry, at least not really, but there were trays upon trays of appetizers being passed at the party, and it seemed like the polite thing to do to accept them when offered.

Sebastian spent the evening being incredibly polite.

He groans a little as the driver takes a turn too quickly, hand flying to his once again overfull belly, and then remembers Chris’s request.

_Does four count as a couple? ETA 15 min (in case you were counting that, too)_

The phone vibrates in his hand, and he lurches in surprise, shoving his stomach uncomfortably against the seatbelt. A deep breath, then another, and then he glances at the phone. And promptly takes another deep breath.

_Four’s good. Way to be, Chubby Dumpling. Hope you saved some room for dessert -- it’ll be waiting for you._

The content of that message is as responsible as the contents of his stomach for his inability to breathe. Now he’s wishing the driver would take every turn recklessly, weave in and out of traffic. He needs to know what’s waiting, what devilish and delicious surprise Chris has designed this time.

God, but he loves this game.

Sebastian practically flings himself out of the car when it delivers him to the hotel, laughing at himself as he almost trips over the curb. Abandon all chill, ye who enter into a weird food-based relationship with Chris Evans. He makes it up to his room without being stopped for a photo, and he’s never swiped a keycard as eagerly as he does this one.

He shrugs out of the blazer as soon as the door shuts behind him and rounds the corner, heading for the dining room. He feels his face actually fall when the table’s empty, but then his pocket vibrates once again.

_You’ve gotta be full. Go get comfortable._

“Comfortable?” He’s talking to himself, but surely this isn’t the first sign of madness he’s exhibited lately. But is there really going to be food in the--

He stops in the doorway of the bedroom to stare, because there’s a silver tray in the center of the bed -- the kind with legs, so you can just relax against the pillow and pull the tray up over your lap while you eat. So he can crawl into this big, big bed and tug that tray right up over his belly and eat.

There are two containers on the tray -- and is that a red rose in a vase, seriously? -- and Sebastian breathes a sigh of relief. Okay. Two things. He’s full, he’s really full, but surely he can eat two things.

Even though one of them is a towering sundae, rising out of a crystal goblet, and all Sebastian’s hungry -- and God, yes, he’s suddenly desperately hungry -- eyes can see is the layers of ice cream and fudge and chocolate syrup before the whole thing ends in a mound of whipped cream, topped with chocolate shavings, a few delicate wafers and, of course, an actual cherry.

He wants it.

Next to that gorgeous monstrosity, the ramekin looks innocent, almost tiny. But he knows better: crème brûlée is decadence in every bite, custard and sugar and creamy smoothness on his tongue. He’s kind of a connoisseur. This time, the chocolate shavings are white, and there are a couple plump blackberries perched on top of the crust.

The problem is where to start, but then he remembers his instructions: get comfortable.

When he FaceTimes Chris five minutes later, he’s all set.

\--

Sebastian’s chosen his angle carefully, so that when the call connects, all Chris can see is his face and the wall.

Chris’s cheeks are a little red, and Sebastian knows that look: he’s seen it on his own face often enough. He’s probably wearing a similar expression right now, tipsy and turned on, with the former feeding the latter.

Even the thought of feeding heats his own face, and he and Chris stare at each other, both grinning, the anticipation nearly a tangible thing through the screen.

Chris breaks first.

“So?”

Without a word, Sebastian swivels the camera and grins triumphantly at the audible intake of breath.

“Jesus, Seb.”

He can see what Chris’s seeing, obviously -- the tray, snugged up against his bare chest, the cool silver brushing up against the visible roundness of his belly. The vase is gone, but the rose is resting between the two desserts. Sebastian breathes deeply, and watches Chris watch his belly jiggle.

He doesn’t think it matters who wins this game.

“Where should I start?”

He picks up the spoon, lets it hover in the air between his choices while he waits for direction.

Chris’s voice is a little unsteady. “The sundae.”

Sebastian flips the camera, grins at Chris and pops the cherry into his mouth.

“I did not think this through,” Chris mutters.

“I don’t know,” Sebastian says, shrugging as he pulls the stem out of his mouth. If only he could do a trick with it, but then it seems like the choice itself was a pretty strategic move, judging from the way Chris is looking at him.

“Seems like you had a pretty good idea.” A spoonful of nothing but whipped cream disappears into his mouth, and he watches Chris’s eyes go a little darker, his lips parting in sync with Sebastian’s.

It seems unfair, the amount of pleasure he’s getting out of this, because as good as this sundae is -- and it _is_ , gloriously gooey goodness in every bite he scoops into his mouth -- there’s also how Chris is watching him. So in addition to the cool sweetness sliding over his tongue, there’s also a bolt of heat with every bite, and the dueling sensations are making his whole body tremble.

He wonders if Chris can tell.

To be fair -- and in this moment, Sebastian’s intensely interested in fairness, at least as it pertains to his effect on Chris, because if he’s this undone, this quickly, having it be one-sided would be tragic -- Chris doesn’t look unaffected. Chris looks like he’d like to climb through the phone and take the spoon out of Sebastian’s hand, the hand not holding the phone clenched on top of a jean-clad thigh.

Chris’ fingers are stroking the denim like they might roam over Sebastian’s skin while he ate.

Sebastian takes a deep breath and another bite, deliberately leaving a bit of chocolate sauce on the corner of his mouth. He sets down his spoon and eyes Chris. It’s a challenge now.

It’s like dim sum all over again, but the stakes are higher and sweeter this time. Now Sebastian wants to win, and he wants to see Chris crack. Wants to see Chris want him. After a summer of doubt that seemed to stretch on forever, he needs this.

His tongue creeps out of his mouth to swipe delicately at the sauce, lapping carefully and thoroughly.

Chris groans.

Sebastian grins.

“God, that’s good,” he says, letting his eyes slip closed for a second. “Wish you could have some.”

He picks up the spoon, lets Chris hear it clink against the empty goblet. “I didn’t save you any, though.”

“That’s …” Chris blinks. “It was for you.” He straightens, visibly trying to regain a little of his composure. “And you’re not done yet, right?”

“Not even close,” Sebastian promises, pushing the goblet to the side and sliding the ramekin a little closer. “This looks amazing. You know I love berries.”

“Blueberries,” Chris mutters automatically. “They didn’t have blueberries.”

Sebastian pinches a few slivers of white chocolate between his thumb and forefinger and pops them casually into his mouth.

“Blackberries are good, too. Especially with chocolate. And sugar.”

“Everything sweet.” Chris’ voice sounds a little strangled, but he’s watching Sebastian’s every move, like suddenly their roles are reversed and Chris is the one used to inhabiting the body of a sniper, tracking his prey.

Might as well make it a good show, then. Sebastian stretches, palming his belly. “Let’s do it.”

He raises the spoon and offers a snappy salute with it before swiping the last hint of sauce off the silver with his tongue.

“Come on, then,” Chris says, and his voice is low and thick, layered with everything they both know and nobody’s saying out loud.

The moan that accompanies Sebastian’s first bite of brûlée is theatrically loud and completely unplanned. He might be embarrassed, in any other situation, to be caught enjoying his food this enthusiastically -- but that’s the whole point here. Zero shame in this game.

He can go another round, easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to scream about Sebastian Stan (and who doesn't, it should be a national pastime), come say hi on Tumblr! I'm [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) there. Let's be friends.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to scream about Sebastian Stan (and who doesn't, it should be a national pastime), come say hi on Tumblr! I'm [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) there. Let's be friends.


End file.
